Thursday, September 23, 2010

Chasing the money

There is a phrase in the entrepreneurial world called "chasing the money" which essentially means focusing your business on markets you have a high probability of getting sales. This also tends to mean not trying original ideas

It seems that I am NOT "chasing the money" when it comes to writing.

My pitch today struck a chord, which was good, but to have the group moderator vehemently steer me to the Young Adult audience...

That is not the product I am working on. None of the context works for a youth audience. The characters, setting, dialogue... these are grown folks and it would reduce the effectiveness of the story to handle it otherwise.

A YA story would have to start from scratch. Period.

Would you try to rework a Laurell Hamilton or Jim Butcher book and peg it to the YA audience?

If the editors I meet this weekend ONLY want YA fantasy material, I have nothing they want.

My book just doesn't work without the adult setting unless you want to lobotomize and sterilize the whole fucking thing.

Yeah, I am a touched pissed off about now. If publishers wonder why they don't sell more books, maybe they need to stop chasing trends and start leading trends instead.

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Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away